Golden Hero Style
by Cornuthaum
Summary: A Last Stand can be made without even knowing that one is about to die. Such is the fate of kings.


Surprise attacks are only ever fun if you are the one pulling them off. I should have remembered that.

Power.

Control.

Purpose.

I have these.

How could I not have them, I, who has faced gods and overcome them _("Mostly", the dark voice in my head says. Bah!_).

And so I launch a flurry of blows against the impudent wretch before me.

Never stop.

Never hesitate.

This is what I am. An unstoppable force of nature.

Archer parries.

Barely.

Archer is launched into the air.

What a pretty sight, to see that arrogant bastard rocketing away from the force of my blow.

_I am Gilgamesh._

Danger. Terrible, terrible danger, danger that could end my existence.

_King of Kings_

Now it is me who is airborne. But I jumped, I wasn't knocked away. My actions are controlled and with purpose.

_King of Uruk_

Another blow threatens to take my life. Another blow parried. My arms are firm, they do not shake from parrying city-crushing strikes.

_I have fought beasts_

A lance that knows no equal stabs at me. One of my loyal swords interposes itself between my heart and the tip of the weapon. Enough to stop a killing blow, not enough to avoid the weapon piercing through armor and flesh. A minor wound, for sure.

_men_

Pain. Piercing pain. It distracts me. More pain follows. The wretch, Archer, has dared wound me. The beautiful Knight of Knights has, too. But such a pretty face, ahh, how could I truly hate her?

_and gods._

Ah yes, that's how I can hate her. Saber is reeling from my terrible blow, Lancer is backing off, probably to prepare another surprise attack. The wretch is taking aim once again with his thrice-cursed bow.

_Now watch me shine._

He thinks he can outdo me in ranged combat.

**ME!**

I am Gilgamesh. Archer of the Fourth Grail War. I am legend.

He is nothing but a man powered by the false hope of victory.

And Lancer, swooping down from the heavens in a deathstroke, is just a petty little godling whose legend has found its equal in mine.

The chain that binds gods erupts around me.

Lancer never gets a chance to react. Magic binds him as surely as irons.

A downward thrust, and Lancer is a non-issue. Wounds like that impede even servants.

I am wounded and my radiance is dimmed, but I am unstoppable.

And so I advance once more upon the Thief, the Wretch, the .... I don't know words insulting enough to express my feelings for Archer.

But I do know that he will die now.

I can hear him pray. Pray for his miracle of swords. Impressive, this power, for scum like him.

Not fast enough. Not this time.

And never again once I'm done with him.

I, Gilgamesh, call.

The world answers. As it was meant to do.

The infinite collection of weapons manifests around me, aimed at a peasant risen above his station.

They launch themselves at him, an unending stream of certain death.

Archer and I both dodge.

Archer dodges, at least momentarily, my rain of death.

I dodge the furious attack of the glorious apparition of power - yes, yes, Saber, just to silence the voice in my head - and drive her off even as that magnificent sword of hers shatters my own blade.

Time to get serious, then. Maybe.

I raise my arms, wincing at the pain of shattered bones grinding against each other, and through the Gate of Babylon, grasp all the swords I need.

And this time there is no escape for Archer.

First one, then two, then four blades hit him in rapid succession, accurate and without hesitation.

Still he prays for his man-made miracle.

Too late.

The Gate of Babylon claims another victim.

Archer falls, more pincushion than man.

_Ambush __**me**__ again, will you, wretch? _

I can hear them scream, the allies of that mongrel. His master, the girl, ahh, I can almost taste her agony and despair, and her screams are music to my ears.

_Ally with others to kill me, girl, and this is what you get. _

I am Gilgamesh. None shall stand before me.

But this isn't the time for self-adulation, well-deserved as that would be.

Again I am under attack. Again, it is the woman I shall make mine that swings her blade at me. And again, her blow shatters my blade.

I don't like that.

But she is the King of Knights. A legend in her own right. His own right? Whatever.

Her sword is unlike most of mine, which I possess for the sake of claiming them as my own.

Her sword is her heart, her soul, her being.

And I will make it mine.

Obstacles or not, I will make her mine.

If nothing else, this alliance of do-gooders is moderately powerful. After all, they wounded me.

One of them has paid for this indignity. The second is bound and beaten, defended by his mortal master.

The third stands against me, fresh, her armor unsullied by dirt, her face set in a mask of concentration.

I will shatter that mask and replace it with one of rapture.

But first, my weapon.

This is not the time for bombardment, no, she deserves to me taking her head-on.

This is not the time for narrow parries and close blocks.

This is the time for power.

My sword ... no, this isn't putting it the right way at all ... the sword that exists for me alone appears in my hand, resting there as if the world was made to see me wield it.

It was, by the way.

And so we clash.

Back and forth, to and fro, hither and yon, so many words have the mortals of this world come up with to describe the dance of war.

But between certain death howling in in hammer-blows and golden sparks flashing in and out of existence every time our blades meet, I feel... happy.

And gods, talking to her, it is liberating, even though she is most unappreciative of my greatness.

And then, from one moment to the next, everything changes.

A gruesome blow to my back staggers me. An unstoppable strike from an invincible blade hacks into me.

_I am Gilgamesh_

I turn halfway, and see her. The mortal master of Lancer.

_King of Kings_

My sword pierces and grinds. But even as she falls, wounded, I know that it is not unto death.

_King of Uruk_

Saber comes at me again, and only a creative piece of footwork saves me from death.

_I have fought beasts_

My riposte catches her right arm, more than just drawing blood. Such is the power of the Sword of Gilgamesh.

_men_

But then that boy stands by her side, wrapping his own hand around the grip of this most deadly of swords.. In the looks they give each other, I can see love. No, not love. True love, the kind that epics are written about, the kind that transcends time itself.

_and gods._

If I still had a heart, if I were mortal, I would suffer heartbreak right now. Nonetheless. The boy is an obstacle. Saber, right now, is an obstacle. And obstacles exist to be killed. And so, at the same time, we raise our swords for the blow that will decide the outcome of the Fifth Grail War.

_Now watch ...._

Ah. Too bad. Shock, it seems, can still affect me. Strange, how rational I am, despite a blade spitting me through the torso. No pain, fortunately.

_... me die._

But this will not stop me from leaving a mark.

And so I raise my hand, trying to reach those smooth cheeks, trying to cup them in my royal hands but once...

Ahhh. Too bad. My arm is failing me.

So. My last words. How unfair, that I am to die, that I am to be denied the prize of prizes... lovely, lovely Saber.

Ah, yes, last words, before I am well and truly gone...

My bloodied hand raising to meet her face once more, I say the one thing on my mind: "You... could have been MINE."

_And then, nothing._


End file.
